By the time they had finished singing Spokes Moloi’s praises and basking in the perpetual glow of his grace, they realised that it was almost five o’clock in the evening. If they rushed, they could find the shopkeeper of the Idlazonke General Goods and Bottle Store still open for business. They all turned to Joli Msimanga, who not only had the most reliable car in the village but was also Spokes Moloi’s brother-in-law, and, as such, deserved to play a prominent role in whatever unfolded. Chief Cele Mkhize, Joli Msimanga and the two mujibhas piled into Msimanga’s Ford Mustang, which had travelled better days. Lurching here and there and raising a lot of dust in its wake, the car arrived at the shop just as the shopkeeper was pulling down the iron grille that protected the goods from potential theft. The two mujibhas, ignoring the shopkeeper, who held his arms outstretched and waved the palms of his hands in the universal gesture of refusal, rolled under the safety grille, entered the shop and started ordering all manner of sweets they had absolutely no intention of paying for: apricots, fudge, everlastings, liquorice, jelly babies, Red Mouth sherbet, double-deckers and more. When Chief Cele Mkhize and Joli Msimanga approached the store, the shopkeeper verbalised what he had long been gesturing: ‘The shop is closed. I cannot serve you. I have already locked the cash register.’

‘There is no problem then, because it is your phone that we are wanting to use,’ Chief Cele Mkhize informed him.

‘The shop is closed. The phone is in the shop; therefore, you cannot use the phone.’

‘Don’t talk to the headman as though you are talking to just any man,’ Joli Msimanga warned the shopkeeper.

‘I do not work for the headman. I work for Silas Mthimkhulu. I follow his rules. If he says that I should lock up the shop at five o’clock sharp and not allow anyone entry after that time, then that is exactly what I will do.’

‘This is an emergency, man!’ Chief Cele Mkhize said, trying another tactic.